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Yes, she thought, laying down her brush in extreme fatigues, I have had my vision.
Virginia Woolf
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Virginia Woolf
Age: 59 †
Born: 1882
Born: January 25
Died: 1941
Died: March 28
Author
Autobiographer
Diarist
Essayist
Feminist
Literary Critic
Novelist
Publisher
Short Story Writer
Writer
London
England
Virxhinia Ulf
Virginia yo juanito Adeline Woolf
Virg̔inyah Vold
Virdžiniâ Vulf
Virdzhiniia Vulf
Virzhinia Ulf
Virginia Stephen
Virzhin︠iia Ulf
Adeline Virginia Stephen
Virginyah Volf
Adeline Virginia Woolf
Virginia Adeline Woolf
Adeline Virginia Stephen Woolf
Birtzinia Gulph
Virginia Stephen Woolf
Woolf
Virginia
1882-1941
Fatigue
Brushes
Extreme
Extremes
Vision
Fatigues
Thought
Lighthouse
Laying
Brush
More quotes by Virginia Woolf
For the young people could not talk. And why should they? Shout, embrace, swing, be up at dawn.
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How then did it work out, all this? How did one judge people, think of them? How did one add up this and that and conclude that it is liking one felt, or disliking?
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But I pine in Solitude. Solitude is my undoing.
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My mind works in idleness. To do nothing is often my most profitable way.
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I grow numb I grow stiff. How shall I break up this numbness which discredits my sympathetic heart?
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I really don't advise a woman who wants to have things her own way to get married
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Against you I will fling myself, unvanquished and unyielding, O Death!
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The compensation of growing old ... was simply this that the passion remains as strong as ever, but one has gained -- at last! -- the power which adds the supreme flavour to existence -- the power of taking hold of experience, of turning it round, slowly, in the light.
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The world is crammed with delightful things
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Soup is cuisines kindest course
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A masterpiece is something said once and for all, stated, finished, so that it's there complete in the mind, if only at the back.
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. . . clumsiness is often mated with a love of solitude.
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We insist, it seems, on living.
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I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in.
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If people are highly successful in their profession they lose their senses. Sight goes. They have no time to look at pictures. Sound goes. They have no time to listen to music. Speech goes. They have no time for conversation. They lose their sense of proportion.
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But beauty must be broken daily to remain beautiful.
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I am obsessed at nights with the idea of my own worthlessness, and if it were only to turn a light on to save my life I think I would not do it. These are the last footprints of a headache I suppose. Do you ever feel that? - like an old weed in a stream. What do you feel, lying in bed?
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The older one grows, the more one likes indecency.
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It might be possible that the world itself is without meaning.
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I want the concentration and the romance, and the worlds all glued together, fused, glowing: have no time to waste any more on prose.
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